


A Hand to Hold

by Narya_Flame



Series: Summerland [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover of 'verses, Crossover of ‘The Ways of Paradox’ and ‘Dark Prince ‘verse, Explicit Language, Gen, Mentioned: Maglor, References to Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-30 12:35:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17828672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: After seeing the lives of Maglor and Claire in the Portal, Vanimórë travels to their Earth, knowing that he can offer them a choice - but does he dare disturb the universe?A little gift ficlet  for Spiced Wine, set chronologically betweenBeyond the PortalandSummerland."Companionship, understanding, love, of all kinds and all flavours, a hand to hold. It all comes down to the same thing, Maglor, in the end: someone to share our lives. Yes, I wanted that too..."FromStorm Warning, bySpiced_Wine.





	A Hand to Hold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Spiced_Wine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/gifts).



> Spiced and I were talking over email, and we both agreed that Vanimórë would not have taken the decision to make Claire immortal without doing a little background research - and that he wouldn't have made the decision without speaking to her unless her life was in danger. This little one-shot explores how he might have gone about that.

It was not a decision he could afford to make lightly. He had no wish to spy, and he doubted that Maglor would choose amiss – but he had to be sure.

Her school years, in Sheffield, he left mostly alone. He could tell from the scenes in the Portal that she was studious, confident and well-liked – in no small part thanks to her love of mischief and occasional disregard for the rules. There was nothing wrong with that; she never went so far as to be cruel or cause distress. Her three years at university were much the same, although the easy carelessness of childhood began to fade, tempered by caution and reflection and the occasional bitterness of life without the rigid walls of classroom and family.

It was later, though, as she studied the law with grim determination, that he began to see glimpses of the woman Maglor would befriend and grow to love. She was not happy, and yet she went on, tenacious, stubborn, her intellect and earnest manner seeing her over the hurdles that tripped so many of her would-be peers. Once or twice he went to cocktail parties and networking events in the gleaming glass towers of Canary Wharf, playing the part of Summerland's wealthy owner – an eccentric young oligarch in search of financial advice or legal representation. He never spoke to her directly, not entirely sure that she wouldn't sense what he was, even in this bound and muted state. When he could, though, he stood with his back to her, or half-tucked himself behind partitions, near enough to hear her but out of her line of sight. He heard her argue fiercely about gender equality, about the social responsibilities so often shirked by large corporations, and he smiled. He listened, too, and winced for her, as she occasionally failed to filter her words and spoke without tact to a client or important contact, and was left biting her tongue and blushing.

 _Keep hold of it, my dear,_ he thought, watching her leave at the end of a particularly difficult night. _The passion, the ferocity, the desire for justice – keep hold of it all. Thou wilt need it, before the end._

She turned and scanned the space behind her; he stepped swiftly into the shadows; she frowned, and slid into the waiting taxi.

Once he took on his old guise of a homeless drifter, and he curled up in a sleeping bag outside Brick Court Chambers, face dirtied and hair glamoured to appear matted and lank. It was dark by the time she left (she always worked late, even on Fridays); her hair, dyed platinum blonde, tumbled down her back, and her legs were bare, her courtroom pumps swapped for spindle-heeled sandals. Office drinks. He closed his eyes as she picked her way down the stairs and across the street, surrounded by the noisy chatter of her colleagues.

The clicking of her shoes paused as she passed him.

“Come the fuck on, Claire,” called a young male voice – impatient, deep, clipped.

“I'll catch you up,” she replied.

The brigade of braying young professionals moved on.

“Are you OK?” she asked softly – and he could feel the confused jumble of emotions rolling off her. Concern was at its head, fury not far behind, a simmering resentment that someone should be brought so low and not helped. Guilt as well, both at her question (ridiculous to ask someone in that situation if they were OK, because how could the answer possibly be yes?) and her own ingratitude (what right had she to feel unhappy and hard done by when there were so many people in the world worse off than she was?).

He nodded, but did not open his eyes.

“Can I get you anything?”

A brief shake of the head.

She waited a moment, and then the expensive heels click-clacked away – but not in the direction of her colleagues, and not for very long. She was back inside five minutes, and set a cup of coffee and a hot pasty down on the pavement beside him.

“I don't have any cash; I'm so sorry.” She sounded it too. “I wasn't sure about milk and sugar, but I brought some anyway, in case.” She leaned the little plastic packets against the styrofoam cup. Another awkward pause. “I should probably go.”

He didn't speak or look at her. He couldn't risk being recognised, if they met again.

“Well...bye.”

Her shame was as hot as tears. As she clacked away he opened his eyes to watch her, his mind made up.

 _Makalaurë, it seems that we are in agreement. Not that you know it at the moment, of course._ For this was still Claire before St Andrews; she would not meet Maglor for some months yet. Vanimórë felt a sharp pang at the thought of the images he and Elgalad had seen in the Portal, of Maglor's long, lonely life. _Well, I will do what I can now – for both of thee._

He was hesitant to spend time in the little seaside town, acutely aware that Maglor might sense him, might recognise the whisper of Sauron's blood in the Song. He went once, when Vanya assured him that the coast was clear, and was glad to see Claire laughing as she walked along the beach with a blonde-haired girl and two boys of about nineteen or twenty. He turned away as they passed, pretending to examine the kites for sale on a nearby stall.

“Thou wilt have to speak to them sooner or later,” Vanya said gently, as they sat together in their rented apartment later, drinking warm sweet wine. “Or to her, at the very least.”

“I know, my dear, but not here. I can hardly sit down next to her in the library and ask for her thoughts.” Cat-like, Vanimórë stretched his legs out across the overstuffed sofa, and gave a wry smile. “And she would, I think, be suspicious of a stranger in dark glasses who tried to lure her away from her friends.”

Vanya's eyes gleamed. “How, then?”

He tipped the wine glass from side to side. Lamplight danced through the deep ruby red. “I think it would be best to speak to Claire first – without Maglor. Of course he would be relieved that he would not have to lose her, but if he is at all like our Maglor, he would be furious with himself for daring to feel such a thing and would not respond...positively.”

“He would try to talk her out of it?”

“I suspect he would be reluctant for her to change her life – to change her very nature – on his account. He knows what it is to walk the world and outlive those one loves. I do not think he would choose that for Claire.”

She nodded. “And if we cannot speak to her here...”

“Summerland.” He took a swallow of wine. “It will have to be.”

“Yes.” Vanya leaned back in her armchair, the elegant features thoughtful.

The sea rolled and hissed in the harbour outside. Vanimórë watched the lights of the fishing boats bob on the waves, and tapped the side of his glass. “The Lawsons are opening their caravan park this summer.”

“And they have had so few bookings.” A smile curled Vanya's lips. “Madge was telling Nanny all about it in the village store.”

Vanimórë returned the smile. “Thou couldst manage something, my dear, couldst thou not? A chance meeting, a dropped shopping bag – she would offer to help – and then a little small talk, a gentle persuading nudge while her mind is elsewhere...”

A laugh like a breeze laced with warm spring rain. “Yes, brother, I could. And I will, if thou think'st it best.”

“I think she is more likely to trust Nanny than me. Or perhaps not Nanny; she may remember the face.”

“I can change that easily enough.” She laid a hand on his arm. “Very well, my dear. For thee – and for them.”

 

* * *

 

 

Vanya stayed in St Andrews for another few days. Vanimórë, though, returned to Summerland the next morning, and began to lay his plans.

 


End file.
